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Last week I finally did it.
After two years of saying I was going to do it, and one year of saying I was actually, really going to do it now, I finally got a vasectomy.
I can say that I got it for the right reasons: To sacrifice a little discomfort of my own after my wife had gone through much more carrying and bearing our four children. Or it was just a matter of being responsible, taking the bullets out of the chamber and making sure we didn’t have another “oops.”
But it was much simpler than that, I’m afraid: My wife made me. Like, she really made me.
I think it was to the point that she was prepared to kick me out of the bed until it was completed. For her it was like sleeping next to a loaded weapon and she didn’t trust me with it anymore. And that’s fair: She’s not wrong. So I figured, a week after my operation, I should share the experience for all those other gentlemen out there on the fence about going through with the big “V” themselves.
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I’ll skip all the pre-surgery experiences, except to say: Just go straight to the urologist. I tried to get a referral from my general practitioner, thinking that would help the insurance coverage. They ended up booking me an appointment at a women’s clinic, where they were less then helpful with my needs and saw no humor in my situation. Needless to say I’ve since changed my GP as I have some concern about how well they know me.
The day of the surgery, I showed up at my scheduled time. The nurse took me back for vitals and she ran through her series of questions. Any diuretics recently? No. Any ibuprofen or blood thinners the last two weeks? No.
Did you shave today? No, I typically like to keep a small amount of facial stubble to offset my double chin. She looked at me sternly, and repeated her question while pointing down with her index finger. Oh. No. I did not shave today.
Why not?! She pressed me. She then explained that during my initial consultation, they clearly outlined that I would need to shave beforehand.
Oh, I recalled, do you mean the initial consolation where a strange man juggled my balls for 10 minutes while outlining in detail exactly how he would dissect them and render them useless?
Yeah, I’ve gone ahead and repressed that entire memory.
She was clearly frustrated by this comment and advised that this failure could cause us to cancel the appointment. I advised her that if getting out of the vasectomy was as easy as “forgetting” to shave, then no man anywhere would ever “remember” to shave before coming in. Oh man, we’ve got to cancel again? Let’s just go ahead and reschedule for never.
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She left and returned a few minutes later, even more frustrated with me as she informs that the doctor will continue with the procedure, but now she’ll have to shave me first. Trust me sister, there’s no one less excited about this then I am right now. If you just give me a disposable Bic and point me towards the restroom, I’ll gladly take care of this.
That was not an option. So I gowned up, climbed on to the gurney, and got my feet in the stirrups. I reminded myself that I’ve watched my wife saddle up like this a few dozen times over the years, so I’ll survive this one ride. She then lifted my gown up and says “We’ll, I’m going to have to tape this ‘thing’ back to keep it out of my way.” Aw. …. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me!
My pleasant feelings at the compliment were quickly replaced by terror as she did, in fact, tape it up. She placed athletic type tape directly on my pubic hairs and over the raw flesh of my penis. My initial thought was: How are we going to get that off? There are two options: Fast or slow. I chose fast. I cannot, in good conscious, advise you to take the fast option. I may forever wonder what might have been had I chosen to go with slow, but that is neither here nor there.
She proceeded with the shave, and I thought, you know, take a little off the top, even the sides; make it look nice. No, no. What I got were two stripes down the side, one down the middle. So my testicles now looked somewhat like a skunk with mange. She then told me she was going to put on some privacy coverage. That’s nice, I thought, until she placed one piece of cloth down the length of each of my legs, one across my abdomen and once across both of my thighs; in essence nicely framing my junk like table runners at a Thanksgiving feast where I was the turkey centerpiece. And then she left. Just walked right out, no word on what was coming next.
This was probably my biggest frustration about the whole process. They constantly seemed to act as though I should have some knowledge of how this was all going to happen. As if I had been through this before. I’m hopeful that most of their clients are not repeat customers, because if that’s the case I should have shopped around better.
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After I spent a few minutes awkwardly hanging out on full display, the doctor entered the room. I’m so glad it was the doctor, because I had started to build up fear that a janitor or a random person lost in the corridors was going to pop in next and be greeted by my nicely framed franks and beans. And while that would have been funny, it would have taken me some time to learn how to laugh about it.
“How’s it going today?” He greeted me, very enthusiastically.
I paused for dramatic effect, “I’m swell. How are you?”
He then began refamiliarizing himself with parts of me. As the two got reacquainted, he asked me about my holiday travel plans. I could not think of anything other than him releasing his grasp, and me getting out of this building. I couldn’t even recall what holiday he was referring to or what religion I was and if we even celebrated this supposed holiday.
At this point, he told me I would feel slight pinch. He then produced a 12 inch sword of a needle and plunged it deep into the depths of my testicles. Was it painful, you might ask? I partially amputated three fingers this past March and I found that much more enjoyable then this particular moment in my medical history. Naturally I squirmed slightly. He reassured me that if I felt anything during the procedure after this point, he’d gladly give me another shot to numb me further. I reassured myself that if I do feel anything else, I plan on keeping it myself for fear of that ungodly needle being wielded once more.
The rest of the procedure was a series of awkward pulls and tugs and clamps. I can’t tell you what it looked like as I closed my eyes and imagined how pleasant a root canal might be. I did open my eyes at one point, and the shadow he cast on the wall looked like MacGyver defusing a bomb with a butter knife. Then he said, “You may hear and smell something at this point, don’t be too concerned.” I did, in fact, hear and smell something. It was bacon; wonderful, glorious bacon sizzling on the pan. Until it was clear that was actually me. And now, Saturday morning breakfast has been ruined. Thank you so much.
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As he finished up he leaned over to make sure there was eye contact. “When would you like to schedule to come in and have the left side done?” He asked. My blank expression clearly pleased him. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he laughed. “It’s the one joke I get to do.”
No sir, you do not get to do jokes. You’ve chosen a profession that excludes you from having a sense of humor. I will take this experience home and add in the humor when I share it with others at later time, but you sir, you do not get to enjoy this.
Now where the Hell are my frozen peas, and do you validate parking?
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Photo credit: Getty Images